“Has François not bothered sending someone? A letter, with his demands?”
Her mother shook her head.
“Is that not custom for such a powerful kingdom? He can’t at least extend me a formal extension?”
“Extension for what?” Marguerite glared at her daughter skeptically.
“For marriage,” Lilac snapped.
Marguerite blinked twice. Unlike Henri, her mother held nothing back. “No, silly girl. What aren’t you understanding? He doesn’t want your hand. He wouldn’t try to force you into a ceremony. That would be merciful. Why do you think he’d send scouts in the first place? This is nothing new, France has had its eye on Brittany for centuries—youknowthis. Wars have been waged. In the past we’ve pledged allegiance to them and signed treaties with them, but we’d always remained our own.”
Lilac began shaking her head, not wanting to believe.
“You’re right. If he wanted to approach this formally, he would have sent a messenger or a letter. You are an unmarried woman inheriting a crown. Other men will be falling at your feet. Powerful, obscure. Rich, poor. And he knows that. He wants yourkingdom.”
Lilac held the banister for support, her mother’s hysterics a heavier weight than the grasp on her wrist. She didn’t want to think of what would happen to Brocéliande after the fires from the last war had blazed through the Argoat. During the century they spent in and out of battle, her ancestors were tossed between the rulers of England and France like a ball between angry children.
If it showed those watching one thing, it was that the Kingdom of Brittany, its duchies and its royal family could be powerful allies to any foreign power. She wondered if her ancestors on the throne had been so agreeable because it proved a boon to be attached to a larger, more powerful kingdom in some way or another. They’d stood on their own thereafter, but her parents were right…How long until that changed? How would her small kingdom stand in the great scheme of things if their sovereignty was something she wanted to keep?
An all too familiar fear thrummed through her. “I am not surrendering. Marriage would not help me.”
“What do you think would happen to you, to our family, even if you surrendered peacefully to France?” Marguerite gave her hand a small, unfamiliar squeeze, her mouth lifting in a sad smile.
In her panic over marriage and the overthrow of her kingdom, she hadn’t thought of that. They would likely be executed.
“You and I areverydifferent.” Marguerite’s gaze lingered on Lilac, on the uneven ends of her hair that brushed just past her shoulders now. “I’ve never been in your position, but we women have certain qualities that give us power. You have the upper hand when you choose your battles and go forth in them. We may not have as much power in society, with or without a crown, but we can choose whom to turn our blades to. Whom we allow into our beds. So, marry someone. Anyone.”
“Anyone?”
Marguerite released her with a soft snort. “You know what I mean. A king or any titled nobility with neutral relations—from an allied kingdom that is not France, of course. It can work a number of ways. If you give your hand to a king, your throne is shared, your power becomes his. You can also marry nobility in high favor of their king. That way, you might keep your crown with a prince consort at your side, and the ruler oftheirkingdom will align themselves with us, making for a more powerful combined army. A more formidable threat.”
“Anyone,” she echoed again, her voice faraway.
“Don’t say it like that, Lilac. Anyone with the means to stand beside you, protect you. Anyone eligible who won’t humiliate you. You refuse to relinquish your throne for a man, so you’ll make it clear in your negotiations. Access to our ports and agriculture make for a more than reasonable dowry. As well as any children you may bear together.”
Dowry. Children.She had barely learned what it was to rule. Her ears were ringing as she turned for the steps, doubt clouding her mind. “I will consider it.”
“These are matters to discuss when you return.” Marguerite’s stare burned the back of her neck all the way down the staircase.
She did not follow.
Fearing the castle would swallow her up, she ran, and didn’t slow onceshe reached the bottom floor. She exited into the courtyard corridor and shouldered the door that led outdoors, then marched forward. She would not be free until she’d left the grounds.
She wasn’t safe until Brocéliande welcomed her again.
The carriage was parked near the stable, tucked in the inner corner of the bailey, where the bags were being loaded into the rear trolley. Two muscular, tawny horses waited at the front, and another, prepped for her guard, stood beside them.
As she approached, she marveled at the framework of wood and steel atop four wheels; what should have been a bitter reminder of her first and only time through Paimpont instead filled her with fascination, so much that she momentarily forgot her mounting fury.
A guard emerged from the stables and set his belongings atop the gate to the side. He approached and offered to help her up into the carriage. There was something familiar about him—his rough haircut and round face. Unable to place it, she took his hand and obliged.
“Shall the coachman stop in before we depart, Your Majesty?” he called through the window after shutting the door for her. “He’s almost ready to go.”
“There’s no need,” she said, realizing who he was as he spoke. He was the guard who’d caught her attempting to save Garin. He’d lost some of the cherub boyishness to a dutiful puffed chest, perhaps proud he’d been the one tasked with accompanying Lilac. She gave him a forced smile as he bowed and left.
It wasn’t long before the coachman arrived, marked by the stomping up the step and a booming voice that floated through the front of the car walls. He knocked thrice.
“Permission to commence our journey, Your Highness?” the coachman shouted a bit too eagerly, rousing a grimace from the horrified guard, who darted a glance in Lilac’s direction from atop his own horse.
